They continued to verify my information and review my answers from the testing phase. When they asked for details about my last romantic relationship, I was surprised but didn't let it show.
Oddly enough, I had no problem answering questions about the color of my stools or how many times I'd gotten up to pee the night before, as you'd expect from someone with years of experience as a clinical trial worker.
But now, I felt shy admitting I'd never had a boyfriend for longer than a few weeks. I explained it wasn't my fault as the turnover at the clinic was high, and most people didn't stay long.
They asked me about my friendships and my relationships with the clinic staff. They praised me for the astounding reviews from my peers on my profile, as he quoted, I was "an obedient participant" and "a good listener, very welcoming to newcomers, always curious about them". He said "well-behaved", "agreeable", and "kind" were the top adjectives used to describe me.
I shifted on my seat, basking in their praises, unable to control the smile on my face.
"That's good, really good," the man had said. "Impressive, to say the least. That's exactly why you are perfect for this mission."
The trainee even seemed impressed that I had learned to read and type by myself.
Most missions didn't require the workers to learn, but from a young age, I had already realized how much information seemed to be missing between the screens and the generated voice speaking aloud to us. We had so much free time between the visits, it was easy to learn with the help of the staff.
"Congratulations!" the trainee concluded with a big smile. "You're in!"
I was so proud! It felt as if all my hard work until today had led to this interview. All those times I had prioritized being a good patient and a friendly colleague were paying off now.
When Human Resources told me about the pay, I did not think twice. It was enough to reimburse half of my remaining debt.
Half! And I was only 23!
All the other workers were so jealous when they heard I had been invited to interview. I couldn't believe it myself.
"Everything seems in order," they had concluded. "Let's proceed to the onboarding now."
They were already getting up from their seats when I wanted more details about the mission. I had no other information about it except that it would require me to be away from the clinic for some time.
I was about to ask about it, but my interlocutors indicated the end of the meeting.
I was led to another room. A stretcher was standing in the middle, a gigantic white overhead light floating above. Only the trainee stayed with me. She put a white lab coat on and asked me to remove my uniform.
I obeyed and neatly folded the top and bottom, placing it on the chair against the wall. My hand smoothed out any fold on it, and I assumed they would store it for me, for the time of the mission. This rough fabric had been the only thing standing between me and the world for so many years, and it felt strange to think I would be away from it for some time.
What kind of uniform will I get for this mission? I remembered the mission up north and the weird yellow full-body suits and respirator masks the staff wore. I thought they would give me a similar outfit to theirs, but they did not. I kept my green uniform for the mission and was asked to change into a new one by the end.
I guessed it would be different for that mission.
"Underwear too," the trainee said, her eyes still on the tablet.
I did as asked.
"You can lie down," the woman instructed as she put plastic gloves on.
My bare skin shivered at the cold contact of the plastic material. The light over my head was so bright, I could barely keep my eyes open.
I heard another door open and someone entered the room.
I closed my eyes, knowing exactly what was expected of me now. After years of clinical trials, I had seen and felt everything imaginable on my body. Needles didn't make me flinch anymore. My arms and legs no longer stiffened at their touch. My body had become something pliable, like clay, ready to be molded by the clinical staff without resistance.
"You're going to feel a slight tingling in your fingers and toes," the trainee said, appearing by my side with a nasal cannula in her hands. "You will be unconscious for some time."
Another woman appeared by my side, one I had never seen before.
"What's going to happen?" I asked.
I wasn't fearful. Only curious.
The other woman gave me a small smile, holding the cannula against my nose.
"We're going to make you pretty."
🌱
It felt like a dream. I imagined myself floating. I was there, but also, not entirely. The sound of the door opening and closing came and went, marking the arrival of more people into the room. The stretcher beneath me rolled away, and lights shifted on my closed eyelids.
Then, the scrubbing began.
It felt like being caught in a sandstorm, or what I imagined it must have felt like.
During bad weather, the clinic would not allow us to go outside. I remembered pressing my cheek against the window, listening to the grey sand whipping on the thick windows. I imagined the stinging slap of sand against my skin and the harsh, strong wind through my hair.
This was no different from what I had imagined.
She has such unique features...
...a stunning result of diverse genetics...
No need to change that part...
Sensations, smells, and voices blended in. The relentless motions almost lulled me into deep sleep, but the feeling of icy liquid running over my body pulled me back. My hair was tugged, stretched, and scraped.
I felt more aware now.
"A debt baby?" I heard a male's voice right behind me. "A 23-year-old debt baby? It's practically geriatric at this point."
"She was born in Zone 2 of Solarov," another voice chimed, one I recognized as the trainee. "No one wants organs coming that close from a nuclear disaster. She was probably never allowed to enter a donor list."
"Correct," another female voice confirmed. How many were around me? I must have been a piece of work if that many people were needed to make me pretty. "And because of that," the voice continued, "She'll probably spend her entire life trying to pay off her debt. I heard the fastest way to clear it is to sell organs, but if she can't do that..."
"That's so sad," the male voice said.
"Sad?" the woman's tone was sharp, almost pissed. "What would you choose? A lifetime of slavery or a short, but free, life?"
"I'd give all I can," the trainee said. "I heard they sell one kidney, one lung, part of their liver, intestines, pancreas... even skin and bones! Just to clear their debt."
"Anything they can," the other one seemed to approve. "They live fast and die young."
"Lungs, too?" the man asked with disgust.
"Of course. How do you think Category 1 gets to live so long?" the trainee replied with a chuckle.
"What about bioprinting?" he asked. "I know a guy who got his entire facial bone structure 3D-printed."
"As usual..." the trainee sighed, and I even felt her breath against the arm she was handling. "It's all about price. And these..." she jiggled my arm "...are selling off for nothing."